We’ve all seen films and TV plays about someone who loses their memory through a traumatic experience ‘their mind can’t handle’ or from being bumped on the bonce by a villain.
I was recently having a coffee with a friend and mentioned I’d seen a film the night before in which a character lost his memory for 24 hours, during which time his business partner was murdered. Unable to recount his movements, he was suspected of the crime.
When I said, “I wonder how it feels, losing your memory for a day?” my friend put down his cup and said “I can tell you exactly.”
And he did . . .
One Monday morning, sitting in his home office facing his computer screen, he couldn’t remember how he got there.
He didn’t remember getting up, showering, dressing, shaving . . . not a thing!
Frightened, he called out to his wife who asked him a series of questions he couldn’t answer, revealing he’d no memory of the previous 24 hours.
He’d forgotten they’d gone shopping Sunday morning; that he’d taken a call from America in the afternoon and one from a well-known comedian in the evening. He’d forgotten their granddaughter had stayed overnight and he’d made her breakfast before his wife took her to school.
Everything from 10am Sunday was a blank . . . except he asked a dozen times, “Is Mickey Rooney dead?” – his death having been announced on the breakfast news.
His wife drove him to their GP surgery, where he was seen straight away because it was thought he’d suffered a stroke.
But, as the doctor examined him, like a cloud lifting from his brain, his memory began to come back.
Even so, the doctor arranged for him to be seen at the local stroke clinic, where it was explained he’d had ‘trans-global amnesia’ brought on by stress. It was temporary and probably wouldn’t re-occur.
It did, a year later in a Brussels hotel. After an hour of trying to remember the names of his three grandchildren, his memory returned.
Ironically and understandably, he’s unable to wipe his amnesia experiences from his memory.

Ah, opinions, they’re like cellphones, everyone’s got one, and some should really consider putting theirs on silent.
In a world where change is the only constant, opinions evolve faster than fashion trends (and are sometimes just as questionable).
The beauty of living in a country that values freedom of speech is that we can voice our thoughts without fear of the thought police knocking at our door.
But, with great power comes great responsibility, or at least it should. Unfortunately, it seems like that memo got lost in the mail for some.
Social media, our modern-day soapbox, has made it easier than ever to share our views with the world.
But here’s the kicker: it’s also given the village idiot a megaphone.
Now, I’m all for a good debate, but when did we decide to trade in thoughtful discussion for ALL-CAPS shouting matches and meme wars?
At this rate, friendly debate will be as extinct as phone booths if our leaders don’t start setting a better example.
Imagine a world where politicians kept their cool, respected their opponents, and, dare I say, had a sense of humour. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?
Speaking of humour, as a comedian, I’m often asked what happens to jokes that aren’t funny.
Well, they become politicians! (You didn’t think I’d resist that one, did you?).
But in all seriousness, education is the key to keeping our debates balanced and informed.
There’s always two sides to every argument, though some people seem determined to argue from the edge of the flat earth.
So, before you hit ‘send’ on that next social media rant, take a moment to think, do I really want to contribute to the noise, or could I aim for something a little more . . . sound?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – next week, probably – I’m convinced stupid people are elbowing out sensible people.
Notice that I said ‘sensible’ and not ‘highly intelligent’; because the odds are that, if you’re sensible, there’s less chance of you being stupid.
Whereas intellectuals are just as capable of doing something stupid as stupid people are.
Have I made my point clear? I have? Then you must be one of the sensible people, able to relate to the rest of these ramblings.
As often happens, the germ of the idea for this article came from two different sources.
Sitting in a café, I overheard the conversation between two ladies, one younger than the other, on the next table, which to be fair to me (in case you think I was earwigging), was only two inches from mine.
After the young lady unburdened her problems, the older lady patted her hand and said, “If it doesn’t turn out alright in the end . . .  it’s not the end!”
While I had to stuff three napkins in my mouth to stop myself laughing at this pointlessly nonsensical advice, the young lady nodded, as if she’d just received a message direct from a higher power.
Then, the following day, I was reminded of what must be the ultimate piece of cod philosophical advice-for-the-stupid, when someone on TV said, “Everything happens for a reason!” And I immediately shouted at the screen, “No it doesn’t!”
How can ‘Everything happen for a reason?’
Floods, earthquakes and famine are random acts of nature with no ‘reason’ behind the misery they cause.
Earlier this year, an unfortunate driver sadly had an epileptic fit and crashed into a Kent school she was passing, causing a terrible, heart-breaking tragedy.
If this were a kinder world, she might have fallen ill five minutes before she reached the school, or five minutes later.
But, no. It happened the exact moment she was passing it.
Why?
What possible ‘reason’ could there be for such an appalling thing to happen?
Being sensible, you’ll know there isn’t one.
It might be more accurate and more honest to say, ‘Everything happens for no reason”.

Let’s talk about a matter that’s, quite literally, in your hands.
Now, before you jump to conclusions, I’m not in the habit of loitering in public restrooms. When nature calls, we all answer, but the real shocker is what happens next. Or rather, what ‘doesn’t’ happen.
Gentlemen, I’m looking at you — or rather, trying not to — when you saunter out of the toilet in pubs, cafes, and supermarkets without so much as a drop of water touching those hands.
Sure, I can’t comment on the ladies’ rooms for obvious reasons (though a brief attempt to investigate got me a warning I won’t forget). But, back to the gents: what’s the rush, fellas?
The other day, I watched in horror as a chap walked straight out of a pub toilet and dove into a bowl of crisps, sharing them with his unsuspecting partner.
If you’re reading this and wondering if it’s you, well . . . it just might be!
This epidemic isn’t confined to pubs.
In supermarkets, I’ve seen men return to their trolleys and go about their shopping, blissfully unaware that they’re leaving a trail of germs in their wake.
The simple act of handwashing takes less than a minute but could save us all from a world of sniffles and worse.
Here’s a thought: hygiene police stationed in every public restroom, ready to ticket the unwashed masses.
OK, maybe I’m exaggerating — but would it really be such a bad idea?
You’ve been warned, gentlemen.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to wash my hands. Twice!

Comedians go to great pains to put together an act (or ‘set’ as some of the hipper, younger comics prefer) that contains enough funny lines, quirky observations and flatulence jokes to entertain an audience from the moment they set foot on the stage to the moment they walk off to wring the sweat out of their stage suit.
I’ve recently been mulling over the many years I’ve spent comed-ing up and down the country and around the world, weighing-up the pros and cons.
I can’t think of any other business where, if your professionalism and hard graft is greeted by complete silence, you’ve failed.
All your prepping, writing and re-writing into the early hours, rehearsals in front of the mirror with a recording device nearby, that dreaded pre-show state of nervous agitation which for many never goes away . . . all for nothing.
Comedians and comedy experts talk about the importance of comedy ‘timing’.
They say “Bob Monkhouse was a master of timing” or “Eric and Ernie’s timing was sensational”.
The point I wanted to make (“Glad to hear you’ve got one this week, Phil”) is that I’ve never quite understood this mysterious ‘comedy timing’ in all my years trying to make people laugh – mostly succeeding.*
I just typed those last two words* with my fingers crossed.
I know about the ‘rule of three’ in comedy and the importance of pausing for comedic effect, particularly when I approach a punchline or get this close to the point of the story that will tickle the audiences collective funny bone.
I know too, how to fool an audience into thinking the story I’m telling is seemingly headed towards a risqué pay off, only for me to pull the rug from under them by taking the joke to an innocuous but nonetheless laugh-inducing ending.
I’ve said before that a comedian is like a magician. The magician physically diverts the audience’s attention away from what he’s really doing, while a comedian does it verbally.
Their diversions ensure the final ‘reveal’ will surprise and delight their audience.
Maybe I’ve got ‘timing’ but don’t realise it?
Now that would be funny!

Last week I dug out my Speedos, filled up the paddling pool, repaired the barbeque and prepared the patio area in readiness for the best summer to date.
Weather gurus were optimistic, so that was good enough for me.
Already every garden in the street is blooming and the local garden centres could possibly have the best trading year to date, according to reports.
Now, what we actually need for a perfect summer in Wales is our sunny days to run one after the other. We live in hope.
From February to November, we probably get enough beautiful sunny days to make a whole sunny summer; they are just randomly dotted throughout the year, scattered between rain, snow, hail, sleet and anything else the weather gods deem fit to throw at us.
Anyone know who I can call about this?
Just about anything is available to arrange on the internet now, so surely there is something the Met Office can do to make sure summers are always sunny?
Actually, I wonder if controlling the weather will be a thing of the future?
Off to make a few enquiries . . .

I love showbiz stories and here’s a couple told to me by a friend who worked in TV entertainment for 25 years, so has a fund of tales to relate.
Both stories concern one of my friend’s comedy colleagues – let’s call him Harry – and reveal the differing personalities and attitudes of big-name stars.
In the 1960s Harry wrote jokes for several comedians, including Ken Dodd, but work suddenly dried up.
On the morning (I’m assured this is absolutely true) he was down to his last two pence, Harry’s agent called to say David Frost was starting a new series at London Weekend Television and one of his writing team had suggested Harry should join them.
Could Harry meet David at two o’clock at his Mayfair offices for a chat?
Broke, Harry walked from his flat in North London to Mayfair where David greeted him like an old friend, even though they’d never met.
He told Harry what sort of material he’d need for the 13-week series and said LWT would send his agent a contract!
A delighted Harry thanked David and, as he got up to leave, David asked, “How did you get here today?”
Lying, to save face, Harry said, “By Tube”.
Frosty said, “You’re part of our team, now Harry. On your way out, ask my PA to book you a cab home . . . on us!”
Harry went on to write for Frosty many times afterwards.
Years later, Harry was summoned to the house of a famous film and stage comedian who was ‘auditioning’ writers for his first venture into TV.
Harry arrived early and the comedian talked at him during his breakfast, elevenses, lunch and afternoon tea – not onceoffering Harry anything to eat or drink.
Around four o’clock, the comedian mentioned one of his films, and Harry sad he’d seen it in 1959 at his local Odeon.
The comedian remarked, “Blimey! You’ve got a good memory!”
Fuming by now, Harry said, “Yes. I can almost remember the last time I had a cup of tea!” and walked out!

Folks, I’ve got a confession to make: when writing this particular gem of an article, I wasn’t exactly feeling like my usual chipper self.
You know how it goes—one of those ‘off days’ where even your coffee seems to be plotting against you.
We all have them, and let’s be honest, it’s hard to be positive and upbeat all the time. Even Pollyanna would need a break, right?
But here’s the kicker.
When those niggling doubts and little storm clouds roll in, it’s the perfect time to play a little game I call ‘Count Your Blessings Bingo’.
Let’s start with the basics: I woke up this morning. Check. I could see out of my bedroom window (even if the view is just my neighbour’s cat glaring at me). Double check. And, I can breathe in fresh air—okay, maybe more like village-tinged air, but it’s breathable! Triple check. Hey, not a bad start, right?
No doubt, we’re all guilty of taking people and relationships for granted.
I mean, who hasn’t overlooked the small miracle of having someone in their life who knows exactly how you like your tea (or coffee, or artisanal kombucha—no judgment here)? Recently, I’ve had more time than ever to reflect on just how lucky I am.
And, trust me, I’ve reflected so much I could practically host a TED Talk on gratitude.
Here’s a pro tip: Compliment people often. Tell your partner their new haircut makes them look like a movie star. Tell your coworker their PowerPoint skills could rival Spielberg’s storytelling. Smile every day, even when your face muscles are staging a protest.
Positive attitudes are like a highly contagious, non-terrifying virus.
Give it a try, and watch the magic unfold around you.
So, the next time you’re having an off day, remember: you woke up, you can see, and you can breathe. That’s already three wins before breakfast. The rest of the day? Just icing on the gratitude cake.